


I'll be your slaughterhouse

by miss_sofia



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-09
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-16 01:00:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9266732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miss_sofia/pseuds/miss_sofia
Summary: "You saved my life", he says, "I owe you everything."





	

**Author's Note:**

> originally published in 2012 @lj. title/summary from richard siken's "wishbone".

There's blood on the floor, there's blood everywhere, splattered on the walls, staining his clothes — red on red, barely visible —, dripping from his wound. He won't die, because Wade Wilson doesn't die. He won't die, but it still hurts (no matter how much people like to ignore it, he does feel).  
  
An arm around his body lifts him up, and he can feel the familiar swing through buildings before he loses consciousness.  
  
He wakes up in a bed, bandaged up, in a New York apartment he wishes he didn't know so well.  
  
“Thanks, man. You know, for giving me a hand back there.”  
  
_Now that's an euphemism for “taking a cannon ball for me”._  
  
“Don't mention it, Spidey.”  
  
x  
  
It's doombots this time, blowing up left and right, a full army of them. He's not a hero, he doesn't even know what he's doing there exactly, but he's not going to pass up on the opportunity to bash doombots' heads in. He's not a hero, but when a particularly nasty chain of explosions starts he still throws himself over a certain someone in order to keep him safe, and he can't help but wonder where all the self-proclaimed real heroes are right now.  
  
“Never let it be said again that Deadpool is just a selfish bastard.”, comes the muffled voice beneath him.  
  
“Well, not _just._ ”, and he passes out.  
  
x  
  
More explosions, and bullets, and fighting. And, once more, Deadpool saves the day (or at least Spiderman's life).  
  
It's the fourth time this month alone, and when Peter thanks him he just rolls his eyes. He doesn't even need caring for, will be healed in a matter of minutes, ignores the hand offered to him as he gets up from the wreck and walks away.  
  
Peter calls after him but he doesn't turn back. He doesn't feel like dealing with the mess tonight.  
  
x  
  
It gets too frequent, all this. Wade loses count of how many times he plays the heroic part, dares to do what Peter wouldn't even to save himself, of how many times he hears a carelessly thrown “thank you” — or, even worse, “I owe you one” —, of how many times he shrugs and walks away and pretends it's no big deal, of how many times he feels like he's the one who needs to say “thank you” because he wakes up in a couch he knows too well.  
  
He thinks of collecting, asking for retribution, asking for something bigger and more meaningful than words and empty promises. He decides against it, doesn't know what he would ask for anyway. And the things he knows he wants, he also knows he wouldn't get.  
  
x  
  
They're at Peter's apartment again, eating leftovers and drinking cheap coffee, because it was all he had to offer Wade after tonight's antics.  
  
“So, I owe you one again.”  
  
Wade smacks his mug on the counter, shatters it into tiny pieces, hot coffee dripping down his hand. For a moment he thinks it's going to burn, and then he looks at his skin — no gloves this time, not right now, because somehow he thinks Peter is trustworthy even if he won't admit his real name to him — and gives a bitter laugh.  
  
Peter startles, stops with the chopsticks halfway to his mouth, noodles hanging from them ungracefully. His voice trembles a little when he speaks. “Are you okay?”  
  
“What do you fucking think?”  
  
x  
  
There's an argument going on inside his head, two conflicting voices, growing louder and louder to the point where they're yelling at each other, even though they're both him. It's a bad day, always a worse day when he can't control it, can't keep himself in check. And bad days mean he is more likely to do things he shouldn't.  
  
Things like down a whole bottle of whiskey even if he only feels the buzz for a grand total of twenty seconds before the healing factor takes over. Things like knocking on Peter's door and pushing his way inside the apartment as soon as the bolt is unlocked, even uninvited.  
  
Things like pushing a startled Peter against a wall.  
  
“Wade? What the fuck is going on?”  
  
He blinks one, twice, tries to get hold of himself, but the voice that leaves his mouth is still unlike his own. Just as rough, just as low, but it grates his throat more, it sounds like a growl instead of words.  
  
“You keep saying you owe me. I've been saving your ass all year, and you keep saying you owe me.” He's got Peter's small frame pinned in place by the shoulders. “You keep saying you owe me, and I'm here to collect.”  
  
Peter lets out a nervous laugh. “Do you want another hug, Wade?”  
  
He snaps out of it, suddenly, and the fog in his mind dissipates. Everything is too clear, too bright, the edges of the world too sharp. He stumbles backward, mumbles an apology, runs out of the apartment slamming the door behind him.  
  
x  
  
It's a fight, a dirty fight, a bar brawl blown out of proportion. He throws punches and kicks without a specific target, hitting anything that moves—or doesn't. The anger that pumps through his veins is raw and pure and the conflicting voices in his head are now screaming in unison. He thinks his own voice, his real voice, is screaming too, but he can't hear himself.  
  
The mob starts winning, he starts missing his punches, he hits the void more often than not, he feels broken bones and smashed organs and everything losing focus and growing dark. He falls to his knees, and the last thing he registers is someone holding him in place.  
  
He's back to that same familiar bed, but this time there's someone next to him. He tries to speak, croaks out something incomprehensible, tries again. “Thank you for—”  
  
Peter cuts him short, slamming their mouths together.


End file.
